


Accessory

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cock Warming, Dom/sub, Dominance, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seamus makes himself useful during Dylan’s bout of paperwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accessory

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing! :3
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s been a month since Seamus accidentally walked in on Dylan coming out of the shower, completely naked and looking hot as hell. It’s been three weeks since Seamus decided his lack of luck with the ladies might warrant a foray into some more viable predilections that he’s sort of known he had all along. It’s been two weeks since they celebrated a massive, though isolated, win against the Magog, rewarding themselves with copious amounts of alcohol that left Seamus dizzy and extra-shameless and propositioning Dylan in a hallway, acting so shameless that he miraculously got his way and wound up in Dylan’s bed. It’s been a week since Seamus had any, and now that he’s found an available—and amazing—source, it’s hard to suffer a dry spell like he used to. Especially when he never stopped wanting sex in the first place.

So he shows up in Dylan’s office with some lame excuse like asking permission to recheck the plasma relays, even though once the door actually closes behind him, all pretense falls by the wayside.

Seamus says, “Andromeda, engage privacy mode,” while Dylan looks up at him, cocking an eyebrow. Bent over the large desk with an array of flexis and data pads and a terminal at the side, he looks sturdy and gorgeous as ever. A stray brown bang’s fallen just between his sharp eyes, one large hand clasped around a stylus and the other curled under his chin, his broad shoulders practically calling out to Seamus to be clutched onto. Shifting on the spot with the instant-arousal close proximity to anything sexually available always gives him, Seamus starts, “Boss—”

But Dylan interrupts with an emphatic, “I’m _busy_ , Harper.” It’s strange how he can smile, so full of sunshine, almost every damn day, and yet look so stern and serious in the in-between. It makes Seamus hesitate but not give up.

He whines, “You’ve been busy all week!”

With a snort, Dylan says dryly, “Well, that’s what happens when you start an intergalactic coalition and have to stop an invasion of ferocious cannibals planning to destroy the known universe.”

Though this is a fair point, Seamus naturally shrugs and offers, “...Could we just fool around for a while?”

He gets a flat look. Then Dylan says pointedly. “No.”

“Oh, come _on_!”

Dylan just sighs as Seamus storms over to the desk, walks right around it and into Dylan’s hand, which darts out to hold him at bay. It’s amazing how Dylan can hold Seamus back so easily with just one arm, but that demonstration of Dylan’s indomitable strength only makes Seamus hornier. He licks his lips and leans forward, trying to steal a kiss that Dylan just leans away from, whining pathetically, “Can’t I at least get a chance to change your mind...?” As Dylan gives Seamus an unimpressed look, Seamus switches tactics, opts to pretend that he can please his partner as much as Dylan could please him. “We don’t even have to kiss or anything—just let me give it a few licks. Or one suck. Or a blow, or anything—I could fit right under your desk; you could keep working and everything—” At that, Dylan’s eyebrows lift. Seamus triumphantly increases his begging to, “Please, Boss, I _really_ want your dick; you don’t even have to fuck me with it; I’ll fuck my own mouth on it! You just have to sit back and relax while the legendary Harper skills give you the absolute best in pure, unadulterated, crazy filthy pleasure—”

“Alright,” Dylan finally says, and it takes Seamus a second to realize he can stop talking.

“Alright?” He’s brightening several degrees while he says it.

“Alright,” Dylan repeats, before nodding down at his desk and spreading his legs open, drawing Seamus’ eye to the ever-present bulge between them. Even when Dylan’s not hard, he’s big enough to strain any pants he wears. A spike of pride ricochets through Seamus’ head; he knew even Captain Goodness couldn’t resist his charm. But then Dylan continues in the firm, serious tone of any mission orders, “But you can’t lick it. You can’t suck it, blow it, anything.” Seamus’ eyebrows knit together, confused, and Dylan just nods towards the desk again.

So Seamus, lost as to what exactly the point of this is if he can’t have any fun, sinks to his knees on the spot. When he doesn’t fall quite fast enough, Dylan’s hand extends to his hair, fists in the blond spikes and shoves Seamus down—he hisses when his knees hit the deck. For all of Dylan’s goody-goody traits, he can control just as easily, and Seamus can already feel himself falling into the role of subservient underling. His captain gives his hair only the slightest tug, and he’s lurching forward, crawling on hands and knees to duck beneath Dylan’s desk. When he sits on his ass, he fits with a couple dozen centimeters of free space above his head and enough room to move his arms. It’s dark, but Seamus is used to contorting into small quarters, and there’s something thrilling about having Dylan’s crotch blocking the exit. When Dylan’s hand leaves his hair, Seamus leans up to try and go with it, trilling a needy keening noise.

Dylan places both hands back up on the desk, looks down at Seamus, and commands, “Take out my dick, and put it in your mouth.” That’s all. He says it so casually. Seamus shivers and nearly lunges forward to obey.

Dylan’s pants have a complicated mass of buckles over the crotch, a lapel Seamus practically rips aside and a zipper underneath that he tears down, bristling with excitement. There’s underwear in the way: black, clinging boxers that give the silhouette of just what Seamus is looking for. He hooks his fingers in the top, digging into the coarse, dark brown curls there. He takes a second to breathe, then yanks the underwear down in one quick go. He gets it halfway down Dylan’s massive cock before he has to reach in to do the rest, wrapping his hand around the base and pulling both it and the heavy balls below out of their confines. For a few seconds, he lingers there, staring at its glory: long, thick, veined like some obscene muscle, a dusty pink-brown hue and a rosier shine at the little tip at the center of the foreskin. The musk of Dylan’s crotch reeks of sweat; he probably squeezed in a little basketball time-off before this work session. Which gives Seamus a spike of jealousy; that’s time that could’ve been spent plowing him into a mattress.

Which brings him to another thought; why does he sleep alone, anyway? Sure, his quarters are nice, big and comfy with a built-in coffee machine and everything, but if he slept in _Dylan’s_ room, he could climb right onto this universal treasure every night and ride himself to sleep, maybe use it to brush his teeth in the morning. If it weren’t for the love of his workshop and Rommie, he’d never want to leave.

Utterly in love with the sex organ of his dreams, Seamus sticks out his tongue and presses it right into the swollen tip and rubs in useless little circles.

Then there’s a fist in his hair, and his neck nearly snaps with how hard he’s jerked back, throat arching as he gasps in pain. Dylan snaps, already sounding exasperated, “What did I _just_ tell you?”

“Uh...” It takes Seamus a second to think straight; his mind’s still on his hypothetical fantasy where he impales his greedy ass on Dylan’s mammoth dick every night. A bit of struggling, and he tries: “Put your cock in my mouth?”

At this new, albeit painful, angle, Seamus can just barely see Dylan’s face behind the dark tabletop in-between. Like repeating common-sense plans to a child, Dylan says, “And you can’t lick it.”

“But, Boss,” Seamus grumbles, “What am I supposed to _do_ , then?”

Dylan does that infuriating thing where he shrugs his shoulders and tilts his head like smoothly saying ‘I guess you’re just not meant to know.’ Seamus makes an irritated noise, but when Dylan’s fist tightens and an eyebrow lifts, Seamus hisses at the pain and jumps back to order; he opens his mouth wide, emitting a cheeky ‘Ahhh’ sound.

Dylan ignores it and tugs Seamus forward; his lips pop around the head of Dylan’s cock, and then it’s in his mouth, sliding over his tongue, jamming all the way to the back of his throat. He’s sure his teeth are scraping the sides—it’s too tight a squeeze—and it goes too far, too fast; he gags. Only considerable skill and practice keep him from choking. Dylan doesn’t let him go, so he just has to breathe through his nose and adjust his angle on his own so he can take more down his throat, one little excruciating centimeter at a time, the meat in his mouth hardening by the second. Dylan’s impressive that way. Everything about him is. Seamus isn’t even convinced Dylan’s entirely human. With all his strength and stamina, he could just as well be part Nietzschean.

Seamus still doesn’t make it _quite_ all the way. Even with his amazing deep-throat talent, it’s just not possible. But he gets far enough, and Dylan makes a little groan above him, hand loosening to pet through his hair like a master soothing their dog. Seamus has no problem playing the pet. He does as he’s told; doesn’t suck, doesn’t blow, and takes Dylan petting him with a strange haze of contentment, especially when Dylan sighs, “Good boy, just like that.”

Just like what? Seamus is getting confused again, and he tries to pull off, mostly to ask what’s going on but also so he can bob up and down and please Dylan right, but Dylan’s fingers fist again and jerk him back down. He’s held in place, and it distracts him for a moment; he’s finding he rather likes it when Dylan pulls his hair.

“You’re going to warm my cock,” Dylan tells him, and Seamus’ eyes cross in his attempt to look up, just in time to catch Dylan’s half-smile, half-smirk. “Just keep it warm until I’m done. Don’t do anything with your tongue, your throat, don’t _move_ at all, and if you’re good, I might just fuck you over my desk.” The blunt declaration sounds strange coming from Dylan’s normally proper mouth, but the promise goes straight to Seamus’ cock. Just sit here and wait to be stuffed full of massive man-meat? He can do that.

Especially with Dylan stroking his hair, looking down at him like he’s no more than a new piece of furniture with a nice mouthpiece, Seamus could get behind the submission of this. Dylan’s hot when he’s dominant. He’s always hot, but this is irresistible. Seamus would nod if the giant dick in his mouth weren’t holding him in place.

So he sits where he is, even when Dylan bends back over his desk, hips scooting forward, suddenly stabbing forward into Seamus’ throat. Seamus struggles but takes it, back now arched, his entire face consumed with Dylan’s crotch, Dylan’s warm thighs to either side of his cheeks and Dylan’s public hair tickling his nose. The tangy taste is all over his tongue, making him salivate. He just barely remembers to stifle his whimper when Dylan’s hand pulls away. Dylan resumes work—Seamus can hear the punch of buttons and the curt beeps of mechanical answers—and leaves Seamus hard and wanting, but kneeling and still, like a good boy.

At the very beginning, he thinks this’ll be easy, even if it does make his jaw a little sore to hold it so wide, even if his knees will probably start to strain, even if it takes work to keep himself from drooling down his chin. But it quickly becomes apparent that the situation’s not so simple. Seamus _wants_ to suck Dylan, he wants to do _something_ , wants to show off, to prove he’s as good in bed as he boasts. Besides, a cock like this deserves to be _worshiped_. And it just so happens that Seamus would be great at that. He is, after all, a product of a Nietzschean slave world, and the only way to survive that is to take dick well, even if you think you’re straight. Maybe he thought he was straight because of that, now that he thinks about it. Then he has to wonder why he didn’t think of that before, now that he knows otherwise—oh, probably because he’s usually doing other things than dredging up the past for self-reflection. But right now he _can’t_ do other things, so he just thinks of how bizarrely _amazing_ Dylan’s cock is and how good Seamus could make it feel if only Dylan gave him a chance. He could make Dylan come an ocean, right down Seamus’ tight throat, and he’d swallow it all down like a sticky protein shake to sit heavy in his stomach.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to touch his own cock, but he keeps his arms—now tense—at his sides, because he doesn’t want to waste it—he’s going to be good, and he wants to come while he’s getting fucked, right over Dylan’s commonwealth-royalty captain’s desk.

Of course, knowing that just makes it harder not to move. The more time that ticks by, the more he wants to squirm, but just when he’s about to give in, Dylan’s hand absently ducks beneath the table, petting through Seamus’ hair. It’s a lazy, distracted touch, but Seamus loves it all the same; his eye close and he has to concentrate on not moaning around his mouthful. He feels like a prized animal, cherished for his obedience. It’s just as hot as being furniture, a tool, a thoughtless machine dedicated to warming Dylan’s cock. Either way, he’s been demoted down to Dylan’s _possession_ , and that makes Seamus unbearably hard in the confines of his pants.

Then the hand leaves, and Seamus is alone again, disappointed and growing sore. He wants Dylan to pet him other places, to feel his cheeks and Dylan’s own cock practically bulging out of them; he wants Dylan to stroke the sides of his face, finger his dataport, and scratch beneath his chin and tell him he’s a good boy again. But Dylan just works, and Seamus, ignored, tries to keep his pooling saliva in check and think of technical equations instead of the slide of Dylan’s hard cock inside his gaping asshole.

After what feels like forever, Dylan, still working out of sight, chuckles, “Harper, I think this is the longest you’ve ever gone without talking.” Which makes Seamus wrinkle his nose, because it’s probably true. Maybe that’s what this is about: Dylan just wanting to shut him up.

But no, Dylan’s hard. Come to think of it, it’s rather remarkable that he’s not wildly humping Seamus’ face. Seamus knows he would be, if their positions were reversed. But then, Dylan’s all impressive countenance and ever-reaching talent, so Seamus shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe Dylan is exercising excessive willpower, or maybe he barely notices his own raging hard-on. Either way, it gives Seamus some heavenly daydreams about just how long Dylan could last, even though Seamus knows he couldn’t realistically keep up for most of them.

He could still have a hell of a ride. He daydreams whimsically through a carousel of sexual scenarios, then some more sensual ones, then a few romantic choices. Eventually, his eyelids are drooping, and he’s just hazily picturing having Dylan take him out to dinner somewhere nice, because Seamus never really gets _dates_ , and even though he’d prefer sex, dates do actually sound kinda nice... Dylan would probably be good at them... they could play footsie under the table, and then he’d inevitably drink too much wine, maybe suck Dylan off under the table, grow tired from watching the stars, and Dylan would carry him home, spoon him in bed and wriggle against him, big cock slipping between his cheeks as he lazily drifted off...

He’s starting to drift off in reality. It seems like he’s been kneeling here an absurdly long time, and there’s now a dull ache where the earlier soreness was. He’s slumping forward, his own bent spinal column and Dylan’s thick thighs holding him in place. His bottom lip is soaked. Is Dylan going to work all night? That sounds vaguely like torture. Not being able to talk or move. Seamus likes to fidget in his sleep. He better get one hell of a reward for this. It totally is the longest he’s ever gone without talking. Or doing _anything_ for that matter. Then he remembers that his reward is going to be having the giant cock in his mouth stuffed up his ass, and that makes him try a hazy smile, except that his lips are already too stretched to do it right.

And then Dylan’s hand is back, and Seamus can’t help it; he sighs happily. Dylan pets him like before, but this time does reach around him, traces down his jaw, rubs a warm hand over his throat. It’s a strange place to be pet, but of course Seamus loves it, and he croons around his mouthful. Dylan starts to stroke harder, fingers pressing in as they scrape along, and that almost makes Seamus choke, but he takes it like a challenge and stands strong. The attention reminds him why he’s here, makes his cock twitch again, still half-hard in his pants. Dylan touches him and touches him, each inadvertent brush of fingertips making him that much harder, until Seamus can’t stop himself; he’s _whimpering_ and gyrating his hips. Dylan only encourages it, lets him whine around the heavy cock in his mouth, and that only earns him more strokes through his hair, more petting of his cheek, his chin, the back of his neck. It doesn’t take long for Seamus to start humping the air, desperately aroused. He’s always been easy and he doesn’t care; the throbbing member in his mouth is a constant aphrodisiac that puts nothing but sex in his head. When he gives in and finally sucks, trying to make Dylan explode and fill him with cum, he expects to be punished. But all he gets is Dylan practically purring, “ _Good boy._ ”

A second later, Dylan stops petting him, grabs his hair instead, hard enough to hurt, and jerks him off by it. Seamus splutters in surprise, jaw still hanging open and tongue lolling out, the spit that’s welled up in his mouth trickling out the edges. He’s barely given a moment to regain his breath, and then he’s wrenched forward—he falls to his hands and knees between Dylan’s legs, crawling like the dog he is. Dylan’s chair creeks back to give him room, and as soon as Seamus is out of the shadows of the tabletop, he’s hauled to his feet by his hair. His legs have gone numb from kneeling so long—he can barely keep up, but he doesn’t have to. He’s whirled around and shoved into the desk, a large hand slamming him down. His chest hits the wood, his tailbone pinned under Dylan’s palm. Seamus clutches desperately at the other end of the desk, looks up and asks, thick-headed, “Finished?”

“The work?” Dylan asks like it’s nothing, standing up himself. “Nope. I just couldn’t take it anymore.” And he does that casual, good-natured shrug again that’s somehow both incredibly cocky and cute. He gives Seamus’ ass a smack, and Seamus cries out. Dylan’s hands are on the hem of his pants a second later, and they come right down, dropping to pool around his feet. A plus to oversized clothes. There is no underwear to wrestle down; Seamus likes to come prepared. Seamus tries to lift up to see Dylan properly, but a hand just shoves him back down, so he stays obediently against the desk, excited out of his mind.

The finger that presses against his ass is already damp, probably with spit. He can’t see much from his angle, cheek flat against the desk, but he can feel everything, hypersensitive after wanting so long. Dylan’s finger draws along Seamus’ crack, a long line down, then half up, stopping at his hole, pressing—

“Already prepared, I see,” Dylan chuckles. He doesn’t sound quite like he’s surprised. Seamus hasn’t bothered to hide how eager he is. He pushes his ass back up into Dylan’s hand with a moan.

“Ripe and ready, Boss.”

“I see that.” Another swat against him, and then two hands are kneading his flesh, one cheek in each palm, squeezing and flexing, just for a quick feel. When they slide away, Seamus groans and tries to follow them, but he’s pushed back a moment later by the spongy, blunt head of something against his hole, squeezing in around his cheeks. Lined up, Dylan notes, “I hope you didn’t tighten up too much while you were down there.” Seamus clenches his hole just to be sure, but he can still feel the squelch of lube, the chamber wide (if not quite as much) as when he fingered himself before coming here. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. He likes it rough. Well, no. He just likes it any way he can get it. He humps the air to show Dylan he means it.

Dylan pushes forward, a quick, hard thrust that jars Seamus’ hips against the desk’s edge, his cock swinging up to smack the underside of the table, almost as painful as the bulbous head of Dylan’s cock ramming inside him. His own spit is a help, but it’s still a tight fit, even though Seamus stretched himself as wide as he could: there’s just no preparing for a man like Dylan Hunt. It’s enormous inside him and it’s just the start, and he keens against the desk while he claws at the edge, hard even through the spark of pain.

Dylan pushes in a bit further, falls back, slides in again, starts to piston a little bit at a time, and Seamus squirms under the pressure, the odd feeling of being impaled, the sensation of having something pulsing inside him. But the more he takes, the better it feels. The more it stretches him, rubs along his walls, fills him up tight. Dylan pushes and pushes, until Seamus is whimpering nonstop, pathetically ruined as always, hips helplessly trying to rock back. Dylan grinds to a halt, and Seamus’ cock bobs in place, sticking straight out again.

Then Dylan pulls a little out and storms forward, and Seamus’ cock slams against the desk again, his back arches and his head tosses back, a scream ripping out of his throat. Dylan has another thrust right behind it, this one at a different angle, and it brushes something that makes Seamus shiver in pleasure, his whole body rippling with it. Dylan doesn’t stop from there. His strong hands dig into Seamus’ hips, holding Seamus in place while he’s brutally fucked into his captain’s desk, taken so hard that he almost thinks his bones will break. Dylan will shatter his pelvis and keep fucking his limp form after, and all Seamus will be able to do is collapse here and take it, and that’s not such an unattractive thought in itself, because Seamus _loves_ taking Dylan’s beast of a cock, and every new thrust brings with it a hurricane of pleasure, an ecstasy that only Dylan could dish out, the rapture itself that Captain Hero is always promising everyone. Seamus is just a helpless disciple, blessed to take it. 

Seamus screams himself hoarse in a matter of minutes. He can’t help himself. So _good_ , and he’s so _hard_ , even though his cock is undergoing torture, left to swing free as it is. He almost cries in protest when Dylan’s hand snakes around him and latches on, fingers squeezing tight around his shaft. He’d rather last, and he won’t like this. For a few thrusts, that hand just holds him, like keeping him at bay, and Seamus squirms and whines and clenches his hole, spilling a slew of incoherent noises and dirty talk that Dylan overshadows with his panting over Seamus’ ear. Seamus can still taste Dylan on his tongue, and in a way, he misses having Dylan’s cock in his mouth, but then, he wouldn’t give up having Dylan inside his ass for anything.

Then Dylan pumps Seamus’ dick, and there’s nothing Seamus can do. He comes shamefully fast, tensing and shrieking and arcing right off the desk, orgasm possessing him and washing everything else away. All he is boils down to Dylan’s hands on him, Dylan’s cock inside him. He’s a sweaty wreck that lives for nothing else.

But Dylan’s a monster and doesn’t stop. Even as Seamus slumps against the desk’s surface, pressing his forehead in, Dylan keeps fucking him. The thrusts are relentless. They come hard and fast and leave Seamus trembling. His head’s a wreck. He can barely register what’s happening, until Dylan’s grabbing his hips again and tossing him over. Seamus goes flying over the desk, rolled right onto his back, his legs in the air, his feet having pulled free of his pants, and Dylan tosses Seamus’ legs right over his shoulders like it’s nothing. Seamus is pulled right up to Dylan’s stomach, still full of cock, but his thighs now along Dylan’s chest and his knees hooked over Dylan’s crisp top. Dylan holds him around the middle and gives him a few more strong thrusts while staring down at his face.

Seamus is almost too dizzy to see straight, but what he does catch, he _loves_. He makes a vague sound of protest when Dylan stops, pulls back a little and slips free of his hole—Seamus suddenly feels bizarrely, horribly empty, even though his ass is sore and it should be a relief. His own dick is slumped along his stomach, a small mess of cum staining the head and bits of his shirt. It’s probably all over the floor. Maybe Dylan will make him lick it off after. Seamus shivers in delight—even after getting fucked out of his mind, his brain’s still horny: always is.

Dylan pumps his own cock once, twice, then sprays a jet of white so far that it hits Seamus’ chin. He splutters, but more comes, and Dylan’s pointing it right at him: load after load of hot cum splatters his face, stray globs littering his shirt but the brunt of it catching on his jaw and cheeks and forehead. He just counts himself lucky none of it gets in his eyes.

Dylan takes an absurdly long time to finish. He always comes a lot, but they’re new enough that Seamus is still shocked every time, sure the last round must’ve been a fluke. But then, this is _Dylan Hunt_ , and he doesn’t do anything small.

When he finishes, he collapses back in his chair, leaving Seamus’ legs to fall uselessly, feet hitting the ground. He nearly slips off the desk in a haphazard heap, but Dylan catches him in time.

Dylan picks him up like he weighs nothing, lifts him easily to fit in Dylan’s lap. Seamus rides it sidesaddle and lets his head collapse on Dylan’s shoulder, his body limp and so satiated that it’s hard to keep his eyes open. He doesn’t even have the energy to wipe his face off, which is saying something, because energy is rarely something Seamus Harper lacks. He mutters sleepily, “Thanks, Boss.”

Chuckling, Dylan pats Seamus’ naked hip and says, “Don’t mention it.”

Seamus will totally mention it. He’ll probably bring it up as soon as tomorrow, when he’ll beg for round two. Dylan just scoots the chair forward, back up to the desk. He rearranges his scattered flexis and datapads, clearly about to get back to work, which blows Seamus’ mind: his own brain’s been completely fucked out of him. But it was worth it.

He nuzzles into Dylan’s broad shoulder and murmurs, “Call me any time you need a dick-warmer.” That earns him another chuckle and another pat, and this time the one arm stays around him. For the moment, Dylan’s his whole-body-warmer.

And Seamus takes that as a comforting invitation to drift off for a well-earned nap, safe in his captain’s arms.


End file.
